


I've Got You Under My Skin

by TheGreatSporkWielder



Category: Ringer (TV)
Genre: Because Andrew and Bridget need to live happily ever after, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatSporkWielder/pseuds/TheGreatSporkWielder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know that she loves you. Loves us. That's what counts, right?” </p>
<p>Juliet convinces Andrew to chase down Bridget and bring her back to New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deep in the Heart of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Story and Chapter titles taken from the song. :)

Andrew stares, unseeing, at the newspaper open in front of him. He's pretty sure that he's read the same sentence four times in a row and still can't recall what it says. He glances over the edge of the page at Juliet, who's slumped in the window seat, staring out at the rain pounding against the glass, twirling a lock of hair around one finger, the magazine she'd been skimming through laying forgotten across her raised knees. She seems to be deep in thought, forehead scrunched up as she concentrates on whatever is occupying her. Probably, like him, she's distracted by thoughts of the way their life fell apart two weeks ago and can't seem to get back on track. Andrew refuses to think about what—or rather _who—_ would be able to fix it, the way she'd been fixing it for the past seven months.

 

“Just go,” Juliet's voice breaks the heavy silence hanging in the air.

 

Andrew jerks, startled out of his reverie. “What?”

 

“Go,” says Juliet. “You know you want to.”

 

“Go where?” asks Andrew, confused, closing his newspaper and setting it down on the arm of his chair.

 

“To Wyoming or Nevada or wherever she ran off to,” says Juliet, tossing her magazine to the floor as she turns to face him.

 

“Who?”

 

“Daddy, don't be stupid. Bridget, of course.”

 

Andrew raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Why on earth would I do that?”

 

Juliet rolls her eyes. “Because you _love_ her,” she replies, in that _Duh-you're-such-an-idiot_ voice she does so well. “I mean, God, Dad, you guys were so mushy, it was like watching the last three minutes of a chick flick, but all the time.”

 

Andrew sighs and raises one hand to rub his temple. “I did love her,” he admits, waving the hand in a helpless gesture. “I don't know; I might still. But I can't get over the fact that she lied to me. To us. For _months.”_

 

“I know,” Juliet replies. “And I was pissed at her at first, too. But think about it. Think about how happy we all were together. That couldn't _all_ have been a lie.  And now look at us. It's been two weeks, and we're just like we were before she showed up. Daddy, I don't think it can be me and you against the world anymore. We need her.”

 

Andrew is silent as he considers her point. He thinks of the look in Bridget's eyes when she'd revealed her identity. The hurt and anger that had filled him with every word she'd said. The resignation in her voice as she'd spoke of the unfulfilled hope that he would forgive her. The way she'd flinched when he'd spat about her being a drug-addict prostitute.

 

His thoughts then turn to the night he'd bought the tickets to _Swan Lake,_ and how she'd skipped the ballet to come apologize to him, wanting to make things right. He thinks about the Ring Pop proposal and the way her face had glowed as she'd said yes, barely managing to squeak it out around her beaming smile.

 

He thinks about how she'd told him, truth shining out of her eyes, that she'd stand by him if their lives fell apart.  He thinks about how he'd never been so blissfully happy in all his life as he'd been these last few months, even during the good times with the real Siobhan. _Juliet_ had never been so happy. Their lives were better; their family was stronger...all because of Bridget.

 

 And now that she's gone, Andrew can almost feel himself reverting back to the cold, reserved man he'd been seven months ago.

 

He suddenly realizes what that ache in his heart that has been plaguing him for the last two weeks is.

 

“Well?” says Juliet impatiently.

 

Andrew stands, walks over to where Juliet is sitting, and kisses her forehead. “You're absolutely right, sweetheart,” he says.  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins dialing.

 

“What are you doing?” Juliet asks, standing, craning her head to try and see who he's calling.

 

“Booking a ticket,” Andrew replies.

 

“So you know where she is?” asks Juliet, and Andrew hears a touch of hurt in her voice that he hasn't passed along that information.

 

“No,” he says, “but I think I know who does.”

 

“That FBI guy?” asks Juliet. Andrew nods distractedly as he converses with Agent Machado, managing to wrangle Bridget's location out of the other man. As he hangs up and starts to leave the room, Juliet calls out, “Hey, don't forget this.” He turns, ducking just in time to avoid being hit in the face with whatever Juliet had tossed at him.

 

“What was that?” he asks, eyes scanning the floor. They come to rest on a small box, and he bends down to pick it up, opening it as he straightens to reveal the engagement ring he'd given to Bridget.

 

“Where did you get this?” he breathes, staring down at the glittering diamonds, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Unthinkingly, he traces the stone in the middle of the slim band with one finger.

 

“She left it in the bathroom,” says Juliet. She walks over to him and leans her head against his shoulder as she looks down at the ring in his hands. “I guess she didn't want you to think she was stealing it. But, hey, now you can give it back to her.”

 

“Sweetheart,” he begins.

 

“What?” Juliet interrupts, pulling back to meet his eyes. “You proposed to her before. You still love her. Propose again.”

 

“Juliet, it's not that easy.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I can hardly propose; I barely know her.”

 

“Not true,” Juliet objects. “You know all the important stuff.  You know that she's nice and funny and can actually cook and dances around the apartment to Spice Girls when she thinks we're not home. You know that she loves you. Loves us. That's what counts, right? So she's not Siobhan. That just means that she was never a bitch.”

 

“You do remember what I told you about Bridget's past?” Andrew asks. Bridget's past is, honestly, the hardest thing for him to accept. He can't picture the warm, caring, gentle woman he knows gyrating drunkenly on a table in a smoky, dimly lit club, or whispering filthy things into the ear of some sweaty, overweight, middle-aged man she'd never met.

 

“So?” Juliet says. “She was a stripper once. Who cares? That just means she'll be better in bed. And she'll probably be more willing to do whatever kinky stuff you like.”

 

“Juliet!” Andrew chokes, shocked.

 

“What?” Juliet shrugs nonchalantly. “I bet it's true. I always imagined that Siobhan was kinda frigid and that's why you were so frustrated all the time.”

 

Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. “I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that.”

 

“Whatever, Daddy,” says Juliet, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with a toss of her head. “You know I'm right. Find her and give her the freaking ring and bring her back here, or I swear to God I'm going to do it for you.”

 

“Are you now?” Andrew asks, the beginnings of a smile curling the edges of his mouth. “Well, I can't have that. I'd never hear the end of it. From either of you, I imagine.”

 

“Nope,” says Juliet. “I'll tell those seventeen kids you two are going to have about how big sis had to go propose to Mommy because Daddy was too scared to go do it himself.”

 

“Really, Juliet,” says Andrew, smiling fully now. “Let's not get carried away. What makes you think she'll even say yes?”

 

Juliet gives him her best _Are-You-Really-That-Stupid_ look (complete with arched eyebrow) and says nothing.

 

“Right,” he says, snapping the ring box shut and placing it in his pocket.  He hesitates as he starts for the door, turning back to face his daughter. “Though I'd feel better if you were at the apartment rather than here all by yourself,” he says as he pulls on his jacket.

 

Juliet shrugs. “I'll go stay with the Masons. Karen texted earlier that they'd be up for the weekend. Then they can take me back to the city with them.”

 

Andrew nods. “Okay.” He grabs his keys and wallet. “Wish me luck,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

 

“Good luck,” Juliet replies obediently to the now-empty room. She smiles to herself and walks back over to the window to retrieve her magazine. She flops back down onto the window seat and reopens to the article on Ryan Reynolds she’d been reading. “Grown-ups,” she says to herself, rolling her eyes.


	2. I'd Tried So Not to Give In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You might actually go for this guy, Bridge. He's not only rich and handsome, he's _British._ I don't think even _you_ can resist a three-pronged attack like that.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” Bridget asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

 

The man and woman seated in the booth look at each other, and do that thing where they talk with their eyes that gives away the fact that they've been together for a while. “Nah,” the man says finally. “We're good.”

 

“Alrighty, then,” says Bridget. “I'll be right back with your check.” As she approaches the register, another waitress, a tall, dark-haired woman named Denise, comes up and says, nodding toward the couple, “God, they make me wanna vomit.”

 

“Why?” asks Bridget as she rings them up. “I think they're cute.”

 

“True love is a _lie,”_ says Denise firmly, after Bridget returns from dropping off the check, “made up by filmmakers and songwriters to sell their shit.”

 

“Don't forget novelists,” pipes up Maggie, a curvy redhead, who is standing at the counter, rolling napkins around silverware. “Harlequin sells _millions_ of their books.”

 

Denise snorts. “Yeah, because _I_ want to fall in love with Lord Reginald McSmitherson, who wears his pants so tight that his legs fall off.”

 

“Among other things,” giggles Bridget. “Anyway, I still say they're sweet. I wish I had someone like that.”

 

“You mean you don't?” asks Maggie. “The way you’ve ignored every guy in here since you started a week ago, I figured you had some hot boyfriend waiting back in New York.”

 

“No,” says Bridget, her voice trembling just slightly. “There's no one.”

 

“Bad breakup?” says Denise sympathetically.

 

“Yeah,” says Bridget. “You could call it that. Bit of an understatement, though; it was epically bad.”

 

“Oh, my God,” exclaims Helen, the hostess, as she runs up to them. “Bridget, you have a _total_ hottie sitting in your section. And he looks totally rich.”

 

“Hey,” exclaims Denise. “It's _my_ turn for the hottie. See?” she points to a chalkboard hung where the customers can't see it, which reads “Hottie Section?” Underneath is a list of the wait staff's names, divided into columns decreeing whether they want the male or female “hotties.” Denise’s name is on _both_ lists, and it happens to be her turn on the ‘Guy’ side. The name above Denise's has a check next to it, and Bridget's name is three names below Denise's. “Bridget can't jump ahead in line, that's totally cheating.”

 

“Sorry, Den,” says Helen with an apologetic twist of her lips. “He asked for her. That's allowed.”

 

“Ugh,” says Denise, rolling her eyes. “Fine. But you'd better get me his number, Bridget, if you're not going to use it.”

 

“Okay,” says Bridget with a shrug.

 

“You might actually go for this guy, Bridge,” says Helen. “He's not only rich and handsome, he's _British._ I don't think even _you_ can resist a three-pronged attack like that.”

 

“British?” Bridget echoes faintly. _Don't kid yourself,_ she thinks. _There's no way it's Andrew. He doesn't know you're here, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a hole-in-the-wall like this, and anyway, he hates you._

 

“Ha!” says Helen, smirking. “I knew it. Now, get your ass over there.”

 

Bridget reaches up to smooth her ponytail, makes sure her nametag is on straight, and walks over to greet the rich, hot, British guy who is absolutely, positively, don’t-get-your-hopes-up-Bridget _not_ going to be—

 

“Andrew!” she blurts as she reaches his table. She drops her notepad in shock, and hastily bends down to retrieve it. She jumps when he lays a hand on her arm as she starts to stand back up.

 

“Hello, Bridget,” he says softly, and his voice is even sexier than she remembers.

 

She jerks herself away from his touch as though he’s burned her and shoots back to her full height. “What are you doing here?” she asks, gripping her notepad and pencil until her knuckles turn white to keep herself from adjusting her hair again.

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, and it takes all of Bridget’s willpower to not just fall into the booth next to him and agree to whatever he asks.

 

“I’m working,” she replies, and she can’t help the bite in her words. “You know, what we _poor_ people have to do. Not all of us can fly desks in air-conditioned office buildings and wear power suits for a living.” For once, he’s not wearing a suit; no, he’s wearing that zip-up cardigan that she loves, and she wonders if he did that on purpose.

 

“I’ll wait,” he replies gently, folding his hands on top of the table. “I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.”

 

“I’ve already had my break,” Bridget lies. “I’m not off until seven.” It’s only three-thirty, and there’s no way that Andrew is going to sit in this shitty diner for another three and a half hours.

 

“That’s quite alright,” he says briskly. “As long as the management doesn’t mind me commandeering this booth until then, I can get some work done while I wait; I see you offer free wi-fi. Excellent.” He reaches into the satchel at his side and pulls out his laptop.

 

“You can’t just _sit_ here,” Bridget protests. “You have to order something. And we’re not exactly Delmonico’s.”

 

He raises an eyebrow up at her and smiles slightly, and she bites her lip hard to keep from smiling back. She’s _mad_ at him, damn it. He was an _ass_ to her, and she is _not_ going to smile at him, no matter how wonderful he looks or how his eyes still have the power to make her insides all melty.

 

“I’ll have some coffee, then,” he says. “And you know I hate Delmonico’s.”

 

Bridget purses her lips. “Anything else?” she asks, pencil poised over her notepad.

 

“That rhubarb pie looks delicious,” he replies. “I’ll have a slice of that, please.”

 

Bridget stalks back to the kitchen, retrieves his order and takes it back to him, then dashes behind the counter and slumps to the floor, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, God,” she mutters.

 

“That good, huh?” asks Denise, nudging Bridget’s leg with her foot. “Too bad, he looked really into you.”

 

“That’s _Andrew_ ,” Bridget hisses. Bridget’s never told any of them the details about New York, so Denise has no idea who _Andrew_ is, but she apparently picks up the nuances because she replies, “Holy fuck, your epically bad breakup?”

 

Bridget shakes her head frantically. “I can’t do this. He’s threatening to sit here until I get off my shift because I told him I’d already gone on break.”

 

“What’s he want?”

 

“To talk to me.”

 

“About?”

 

“I have no idea.” Bridget takes a shaky breath. “I fucked things up. Badly. And he took it…not so good. I can’t imagine why he’s here.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t look like he’s here to kill you or anything,” says Denise, craning her neck to get a better look. “And, damn, if he’s willing to drink the crap we call ‘coffee’ for four hours, that’s practically a declaration of undying devotion, if you ask me.”

 

Bridget can’t hold back a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, _that’s_ not happening,” she says. “He’s probably going to serve me with a lawsuit or something, and he wants to see the look in my eyes when he completely shatters what’s left of my heart and dignity.”

 

Denise raises a skeptical eyebrow. “This shit,” she says firmly, holding up the coffeepot. “Four _hours._ To fuck with you? _Please._ That man looks like he could buy the whole damn restaurant with his _lunch money_ ; he’s not here for the rhubarb pie. He came here. From fucking New York. To see _you._ ”

 

“ _And,_ ” pipes up Helen, because no conversation is sacred around here, “when he asked to sit in your section, he did _not_ have the look of a man who wanted to fuck you over. Fuck you, maybe.”

 

“No,” says Denise, poking Helen playfully and fluttering her eyelashes, “He wants to _make love_ to her _._ ”  The two women snigger at that, and Bridget gets back to her feet, rolling her eyes.

 

“Well, you’ll just have to wait until seven to find out,” she says. And for the first time since she left New York, Bridget prays for time to crawl.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. For the Sake of Havin' You Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew is still not quite sure whether he wants to fall to his knees at Bridget’s feet and beg her forgiveness or drag her out of the diner by her hair; but either way, he's not leaving until she agrees to come back to New York with him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been a while. Sorry. Hope you like this new chapter! :)

Andrew tries to focus on his work, but he can't stop his eyes and mind from wandering to Bridget, who seems to have disappeared.  One of the other waitresses keeps glancing over at him and smirking, so he assumes that she knows exactly why he’s here.

 

 He's still not quite sure whether he wants to fall to his knees at Bridget’s feet and beg her forgiveness or drag her out of the diner by her hair; but either way, he's not leaving until she agrees to come back to New York with him.

 

Bridget is stubborn but so is he, and if she is planning on making him wait until the end of her shift, he’ll wait her out. The smirking waitress, who informs him her name is Denise by quirking an eyebrow at him and pointing to the nametag pinned to her breast, keeps his coffee cup filled, and eventually brings him a bowl of chili full of meat so fatty he can see the grease floating on top of the broth, but he’s hungry, so he eats it, and he realizes that he’s gotten so used to eating things with fancy foreign names that he’d forgotten how good regular old _food_ can be.

 

The chili certainly beats the coffee, at any rate.

 

And the pie really is quite good. He orders another slice and tries not to feel guilty about taking up an entire booth while there are people waiting to come in for dinner.

 

His laptop battery starts to run low about an hour before Bridget’s shift ends, and on one of her trips back to the kitchen, Denise helpfully points out an outlet in the wall beneath his booth.

 

* * *

 

Seven finally comes, and although he’s tapping away at an expense report sent in by one of their executives in Paris, he glances up to see Bridget slowly wiping down the counter in an apparent attempt to stave off speaking to him. If she tells him to leave her alone, he will, but if she thinks he’s going to get tired of waiting and just leave, she’s sorely mistaken. This is a twenty-four hour diner and he’s got Denise on his side; at the very least, Bridget will have to come over here and tell him to fuck off.

 

A shadow falls over the table, and he slams the laptop shut when he looks up to see Bridget standing there, looking at him with an uneasy wariness in her eyes.

 

“Please sit,” he says, and it comes out a bit more stiffly than he’d meant it to, and Bridget flinches slightly at the cold tone, but quietly slides into the seat across from him and clasps her hands tightly together on the tabletop.

 

They sit in silence for a long moment, neither one of them willing to speak first, yet both desperate to hear what the other has to say.

 

Andrew finally swallows his pride and breaks the silence.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, and it comes out in a hoarse whisper. "God, I'm sorry."

 

Her eyes are still on her clasped hands when she says, "Me, too."

 

"Please," he whispers, leaning towards her ever so slightly. "Come home."

 

She laughs, a bitter, humorless thing and it’s vile coming out of her mouth; nothing about Bridget should remind him of Siobhan. "Home? It's not my home, Andrew."

 

He can't stop himself from reaching across the table and covering her hands with his. "Yes, it is," he argues. "It was more a home with you than it ever was before."

 

Bridget's eyes finally meet his, and they're sad and aching in their disbelief. "How is that possible?" she asks, and he kicks himself for his horrible behavior to her.

 

"What I told you when I kicked you out…I was angry and hurt," he says. "I _do_ forgive you, and I only hope that you can forgive me for being such an unmitigated bastard."

 

"I deserved it," she says. "It's all true."

 

"No," he protests. "No, Bridget, it's not."

 

"But I _am_ a druggie prostitute."

 

"Are you?" he asks, releasing her hand and leaning back in his seat. "Last time I checked, you've been sober for months. And besides, I'm a thief. I have absolutely no right to look down on you."

 

“It’s not the same,” Bridget replies. “I’m…” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, dropping her gaze down to the table, blinking rapidly, and it’s all Andrew can do not to leap over the table like an imbecile and take her into his arms. “I’m nobody,” she finishes. “Nothing.”

 

“Nonsense,” he says firmly. “That is not even remotely true.”

 

Does she even have _any_ idea what she’s done for their family? How, before she came, his heart had turned to ice and his focus had turned to work and he’d never noticed that his daughter was developing an addiction to drugs and shoplifting? How Juliet had grown more and more sullen and withdrawn, acting out in desperate and futile attempts to gain attention?

 

And then Bridget came…and he smiled and Juliet laughed and it was glorious and beautiful and they were a family again. All due to this woman, so lovely and kind, who sits across from him fully convinced of her own worthlessness. She is so far from it that he almost laughs at the absurdity of it.

 

“Besides,” he says, the corner of his lip quirking slightly, “if you don’t agree to come back with me, I’ll send Juliet.”

 

Bridget lets out a watery chuckle. “That’s just fighting dirty,” she protests.

 

“All’s fair--” he begins, but cuts himself off, as now is most definitely not the opportune time to bring up _that_ particular topic, despite whatever romantic notions Juliet may have about him bringing Bridget home with a ring on her finger.

 

Bridget knows the reference, of course, and blushes to her hairline as her mind supplies rest of it.

 

“Will you come back to New York with me, Bridget?” he asks, and Bridget takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes and nodding, and Andrew feels a rush of joy like he hasn’t felt since the day Juliet was born.


End file.
